Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Raymond’s face tightened. “If you wish to be angry with me, Jeanine, I do not care. Just remember that if you offend Alys, I will punish you in a way that will make this seem like a kiss of love.”

  She sniffed, and he raised his hand again. The sniffles stopped abruptly. Lady Jeannette had absorbed Raymond’s mistake and this byplay with his sister in silence. She was not clever but not completely a fool, either. Years of getting her way with a weak husband had led her to misjudge her son’s character. He was gentle and loving rather than weak and had a strong desire to do what was right. This had led him to yield dutifully to his father’s orders—thus, indirectly to his mother’s—until he was driven too far. But Lady Jeannette did not realize that yet.

  She had no intention at all of accepting Raymond’s marriage to Alys, however, she had come to understand that her usual methods could not be used. It would be necessary to be more subtle and devious to separate her son from this succubus that had bewitched him. There was no use weeping and lamenting. The first step toward persuading her son had been taken by accident, but now Jeannette knew where she was going. Slowly she opened the letters Raymond had handed to her and pretended to peruse the contents while she planned what to say. She could really read the letters later. They might offer a hint as to how to deal with the girl herself.

  But first she would try to delay that necessity or end it completely. Jeannette raised her eyes from Sancia’s letter and smiled tremulously. “Indeed, Alys sounds to be a delightful girl.”

  The remark was rewarded by an embrace from Raymond and a kiss. “She is,” he agreed.

  “Yes, and virtuous, too, so I do not see why it is necessary to hurry back to England so fast. Surely Alys will be faithful, and surely she would not be so cruel as to deny your mother and sisters a few weeks of your company.”

  “Alys will be faithful,” Raymond replied impatiently, “but it is the end of October. Here it is still summer, but north it is growing cold. If I spend the few weeks you speak of here, there will be snow in the mountains—”

  “Oh, not so soon,” Lady Jeannette said, “and even if it should fall early, it will melt. You look so tired, my poor darling, and you are so thin. You must stay here and regain your strength. God alone knows what you were eating among those barbarians.”

  “The food is barbarous enough,” Raymond agreed to pacify his mother since he had no intention of agreeing to anything else she asked.

  Actually Raymond had come to enjoy the large self-flavored roasts that were so much a part of the English diet. Here in the south the meat spoiled so much faster that it was necessary always to cook it more thoroughly if it was not eaten fresh-killed. Thorough cooking meant cutting the meat into smaller pieces fit for stewing, and flavoring it more strongly to disguise the taste of spoilage.

  “Ah!” Lady Jeannette cried. “I will have all your favorite dishes prepared.”

  “As many as possible for today’s dinner,” Raymond laughed, “for I will not be here tomorrow.”

  “What! But you just said—”

  “Tomorrow I must ride to Grandfather and obtain his approval.”

  “You? Why should you ride there? Have we no messengers?”

  “Mother, I have said already that I am in great haste. I do not wish to cross the Alps when the passes are covered with snow, nor sail the narrow sea in the teeth of a winter gale.”

  “Then wait for spring, my beloved boy. Of course you will wait for spring. Whoever heard of a marriage contracted in such a hurry? One would think that the lady feared waiting lest—”

  Raymond had been thinking exasperatedly that King Henry and Earl Richard might have already quarreled and that he would be too slow with the wings of a bird, but he knew from past experience that it was useless to mention such practicalities to his mother. She would either say with false soothing that she knew the king and his brother would not quarrel, or else she would say that the whole thing was unimportant and there would be another opportunity. Then the sense of what she was saying came to him.

  “Mother!” he exclaimed, angry at her innuendo that Alys might be with child.

  “Well, why the haste if she has nothing to hide?” Jeanine hissed.

  Raymond turned on her, and she shrank back. He bowed stiffly to his mother. “Then I will say farewell, madame. I will see you again when my bride stands beside me.”

  “No! No!” Lady Jeannette cried. “I never meant such a thing. I… But Raymond, it will be thought odd. Even your grandfather will think… Wait! If you must fly back, if you cannot bear to be parted—”

  “You have it right at last,” Raymond interrupted coldly. “It is I who am in haste, not Alys.”

  “But Raymond, your haste does not look well for the lady. No, I know you would not choose a girl about whom there could be any doubt, but here, so far from her own place, no one knows her. What will be said—?”

  “I will answer with my fist or my sword! Nothing will be said to or about Alys.”

  Lady Jeannette swallowed and shrank a trifle. It was most unlikely that anyone would say anything about anything while Raymond wore that expression. She had not known her son’s face could look so cold and hard, so dangerous. Plainly the idea of keeping him at home day by day until his interest in the blonde slut faded would not work. However, there was another way.

  “If you would only allow me to finish a sentence, my heart,” Lady Jeannette quavered. “I only want the best for you and your sweet Alys. All I wished to say was that if you are in such haste, we will have the marriage here. That would be best. All our vassals should be invited to the wedding of the heir. They would be so disappointed to miss such a celebration.”

  “Hmmm,” Raymond responded. For the first time his mother had said something really sensible, he thought. It was true that the vassals would be disappointed. They would resent paying the aide owed for his marriage if they were not offered some compensation. Also, the marriage would serve as another opportunity to exact fresh oaths of homage to his father and to himself as heir. That was important. Raymond did not think his father was likely to die soon, nor that young Alphonse would try to usurp his position, but it was a very uncertain world and a good idea indeed to have the men swear fealty directly to him. That would eliminate one more loophole for betrayal.

  As these practical thoughts ran through his mind, Raymond was noting how his mother’s face brightened when he paused to consider what she had said instead of rejecting it out of hand. It would be silly to deny her the pleasure of filling the keep with guests and having all new, magnificent clothing. Then Raymond wondered whether that might have been the reason she had objected to Alys. Doubtless she had been counting on impressing everyone with this marriage ever since he was a child. Well, why not? There was no reason he could not marry Alys once in England and again in France.

  “Very well, Mother,” Raymond agreed. “That is a very good idea. I will bring Alys home and marry her here.”

  “That will be wonderful! Wonderful!” Lady Jeannette cried, rising and embracing her son.

  She was pleased with his consent. It did not seem possible to her that Raymond, who claimed to be so much in love, could fail to couple with the girl on the long trip from England. If Alys refused when he asked her, he would grow angry and come to hate her. He would then believe his mother when she told him that Alys was a cold, uncaring, disobedient young woman. On the other hand, if Alys yielded, she could be painted as lascivious and unvirtuous, in either case it might be possible to make Raymond repudiate her, or if he would not do that—Lady Jeannette was not always totally self-deceived—because of the marriage contract, Raymond would certainly have a strong distaste for her. Lady Jeannette was truly delighted.

  Raymond was equally delighted. He did not care how often he married Alys. He liked parties. His father, he realized, might not be equally pleased with the expense, but he would certainly agree that the benefits—Lady Jeannette’s cheerful acceptance of the marriage and the homage ceremony—would m
ake it worthwhile. Moreover, the aide would cover the cost, no doubt.

  Mutually content, mother and son embraced again, and in the glow of good feeling, Raymond said, “Will you do me a favor, Mother?”

  “Anything, my love,” Jeannette responded.

  “Will you see that the woman Lucie is married to…to, ah, yes, Gregoire the huntsman. I know you do not know the man, I cannot recall myself just who he is—”

  “Married? Why should Lucie be married? She is a good weaver, and Fenice and Enid—”

  “It has nothing to do with Fenice and Enid. They can stay here in the care of the other women. As for the weaving, Lucie can come and work here each day if you like. However, I will not use her again, and there is no reason why the woman should not have a life of her own. She seems to favor this Gregoire, and I would like her to be content.”

  “But… Oh, very well, if that is what you desire.”

  “If it is too much trouble, Mother, I will see to it myself.”

  “No, no, not at all, Raymond. I will see to it. Do not give the matter another thought. I will arrange it all, I assure you. And now, since you have so little time to spend with us, do listen to the new lute song Margot has written. It is the prettiest thing imaginable.”

  Raymond hesitated, surprised by the eagerness his mother displayed to accommodate him. Usually she was not at all willing to do anything that would require more than one or two words to give an order. Then he told himself she was trying to make up for having displeased him, so he dutifully stifled a sigh and composed his features to an expression of pleasure. One thing Alys would never inflict on him was the duty of listening to tinkling love lyrics on a lute. She could not, as far as he knew, play a note on any instrument and had never spoken of poetry except to ridicule the “asses” who quoted it at her instead of making sensible conversation.

  In the court of King Henry of England, Alys’s emotions mirrored Raymond’s. She, too, was wishing that no one could play a note and that poetry had never been devised. Nonetheless, Alys pretended to listen with enjoyment to the lady who was entertaining the select group in Queen Eleanor’s chambers. She had been scolded with startling severity by her gentle stepmother for fidgeting and sighing during the previous “entertainment” of this type to which she had been summoned. Alys’s eyes wandered from the singer to her father’s second wife. There was true pleasure in Elizabeth’s piquant face, and her large greenish eyes held a soft mist of tears.

  Most of the others, Alys noted, allowing her eyes to roam cautiously to other faces, also responded to the sweet sentiments of the song. Was there something lacking in her? she wondered. Was she incapable of love? That thought brought Raymond to her mind, and immediately she was suffused with warmth and tenderness. Nonetheless, she had not the smallest desire to hear “sweet words like pearls fall from his lips”. At least, the sweet words she wanted to hear were that Raymond’s father found her dower sufficient and that it would be satisfactory for her to bring only two personal maids with her and, perhaps, a few men-at-arms.

  In fact it was Raymond’s complete disinclination to chant “Thou lily white/ My sweet lady, bright of brow/ Sweeter than a grape art thou” and similar nonsense that made him so attractive to her. If someone else began to tell her about how “sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes”, Alys thought impatiently, she was going to forget all about Elizabeth’s lecture and throw up right in the sighing swain’s face. As for that idiot singing now, the words were ludicrous to Alys:

  The lady said no more

  Except that she sighed

  And just before the end

  Murmured, “God keep you, dearest friend.”

  That wasn’t so bad, but Alys knew what was coming and struggled to restrain her giggles.

  And with these final words she pressed

  Her arms hard against her breast

  Fainting in agony. All trace

  Of color vanished from her face.

  Her heart was still, and she lay dead.

  That, Alys thought, really was the outside of enough. Those sentiments would be just the best thing in the world for a man going off to war, just the thing to clear his mind so that he would be able to concentrate on protecting himself.

  Then Alys had to fight harder to control laughter. It was quite likely, she thought, that any man afflicted with a lady of such sensibility would go to battle with a clearer mind or, anyway, with a sense of relief, if she dropped dead before he left. Still, there was Elizabeth with tears in her eyes listening to this nonsense. But Alys herself had seen Elizabeth send her husband, who was already weakened by previous wounds, to a desperate battle with a kiss and a smile and quiet assurances that there was no need to worry about her.

  Apparently it was true that real life had little or nothing to do with these ridiculous effusions, and Elizabeth had admitted as much when she had reprimanded Alys. Nor was Elizabeth asking Alys to change her tastes, but only to seem appreciative. She was right, Alys thought, echoing the coo of admiration Queen Eleanor accorded a particularly sickening sentiment. Eleanor was a Provençal. Raymond was also a Provençal. Very likely his mother and sisters were as enamored of this nonsense as were the queen and her sister, Countess Sancia.

  Alys’s own eyes misted with tears, but it had nothing to do with the heartaches of the silly lover in the song. She loved Raymond, but the longer she remained at court, the more doubts she felt about being a suitable wife for him. Of course, it was delightful for a week or two to have nothing to do but read and embroider, ride out hawking, play games, and dance. But a whole life of it?

  The song ended. Alys joined the others in calling compliments while she prayed that the requests she heard for an encore would be denied. By a special mercy of God—or so Alys thought of it—the king and his gentlemen entered just then, and the lady set down her lute. Henry was almost as addicted as his queen to the delights of this musical art. Had he come in while the song was in progress, he would have softly found a seat and listened while his gentlemen stole like mice along the walls so as not to interrupt. However, as they had come in after the piece was over, the mood was broken by greetings and invitations.

  Alys’s father strode across the room to stand by his wife. He, Alys thought caustically, rising to join them, was almost as silly as Elizabeth about songs and tales of love. Then her expression softened. Poor Papa, probably that was because he had had to wait so long before he could marry Elizabeth, whom he had loved from childhood. If I could not have Raymond, Alys wondered, would I, too, begin to appreciate the sad tales of star-crossed lovers? Somehow Alys did not think so, but her eyes were soft with tenderness and understanding as she looked at her father’s peaceful, happy face.

  For him, Elizabeth cured all ills, but, Alys thought as she made her way toward them, the topic the men had been discussing could not have been very pleasant. There were a good many frowns lingering on faces, and Uncle Richard—no, she must remember to call him “my Lord of Cornwall” in public—looked black as thunder. He was bowing over his wife’s hand, finding a smile for her, but his eyes had the suffused look Alys associated with bellows of rage and disastrously accurate, if impolite, characterizations of his brother.

  Alys was concerned, knowing that the king’s ill-will toward his brother could easily spread to her father and widen out to encompass Raymond and herself, also. Thus, she slowed as she passed Richard, hoping to catch a word that would give her a hint as to the cause of his displeasure. She heard nothing to the point—Sancia was telling her husband about the song just finished—but Alys’s wish was granted nonetheless. Sir James d’Aldithel stepped forward from the wall where he had decorously withdrawn to avoid intruding on his master’s greeting to his wife and bowed deeply.

  “Lady Alys, may I offer you my arm?” he asked gravely.

  Alys looked down at the hand extended toward her, then up at the offerer, and shook her head. “It is too sinewy. It would not make good eating at all. Nor do I fancy it as a decorative piece. Detached a
rms tend—”

  “Lady Alys,” the young man’s voice grated, and he maintained gravity and dignity with considerable effort, “it is polite usage to offer a lady one’s arm to escort her, as well you know.”

  Alys’s eyes twinkled. She and Sir James were old friends. He had been one of Richard of Cornwall’s squires before his knighting and had often been at Marlowe. He had not seen Alys for a number of years, however, because after he was knighted he had served the earl in a keep on the Welsh border. The admiration in his eyes when he first spoke had warned Alys that he no longer saw her as a playmate. Thus her ridiculous answer to his courtesy had been designed to make plain that she had no desire to begin a flirtation. Now his expression much better fitted her taste.

  “Well,” she sighed, continuing in jest, “I have aged sadly, I know. It is kind of you to offer to support my tottering footsteps the whole ten feet to where my father stands. I had not realized I had become so decrepit I could not go so far alone.”

  “Oh, how I would love to box your ears,” Sir James whispered, leaning amorously over her as she laid her fingers on his wrist.

  “Do you not remember what befell you the last time you indulged yourself with that pleasure?” Alys asked, smiling as sweetly as an angel into James’s eyes.

  The only response she got that time was a choked growl. Obviously Sir James remembered how naughty Alys had neatly sewn together the ankles on every single pair of chausses he had, so that when he was called to attend his master, his feet could not be inserted properly into the garments. Possibly he could have stuffed the bottom of the chausses into his shoes, but since the top would then reach no higher than his thighs, he did not attempt it. Nor had he ever again used his superior strength to win an argument with Alys. There were other ways to accomplish that, Sir James thought, recovering his temper and uttering a deep, quite spurious sigh.

  “I am sorry you find my company so distasteful,” he said sadly. “I could not think of imposing it on you long enough to tell you what you were so obviously hoping to overhear.”